


A Lovely Night

by Salamon2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Irony, Not Suitable/Safe For Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: Ashara makes a slow trod towards the rebel encampment, somewhere near Harrenhal, bringing a proposal of an alliance she was tasked by her Princess to offer after the Royalist defeat at the Battle of the Bells. As she makes her way there, she thinks back on that night she had at Harrenhal.This story attempts to look at Harrenhal, Ashara, the Daynes, and other characters in a manner outside the well trod path most stories set either during the Rebellion or at Harrenhal take them down. You have been warned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This came about as an a bit of inspiration struck me to imagine what Elia and Ashara could have done during the Rebellion. Everyone is always focused on the fighting and the battles and what characters like Robert, Eddard, Tywin, Jon, or Rhaegar were doing. But here I wondered what "game" might Elia have been playing. What in desperation might she have tried? I also combined it with a deconstruction of Harrenhal from what fandom typically assumes went down regarding Ashara's night that hit me just the right way. Enjoy! It's a one shot that I rather came to like as I wrote it.

**A Lovely Night**

 

           How she wished she could ride hard and fast through these fields and let down the hood to her cape and let her hair flow behind her. She had done so as a child on her sandsteed when she had learned to ride, with Arthur giving it a harder than needed slap to her steed’s rear. She had screamed and held tightly to the reigns and closed her eyes out of fear. “Open your eyes!” Arthur had shouted out to her as she rode away. And tentatively she had, happy and free in that moment. Freer than she’d ever been, especially compared to now, confined by the shroud-like hood.

 

           She couldn’t ride free now. That would draw too much attention to what was supposed to be a simple traveling party of a woman and her protector, Morys. He was the Princesses’ own man, loyal to a fault and a fast friend of them both since he’d been old enough to attend the Water Gardens with Elia and Ashara. Morys was well-built and as skilled with a sword as with a spear—that is why Elia had chosen to send him, as he could play the part of wandering sellsword and Ashara his wife rather well. The only thing that stood out distinct of Morys as being different from the average sellsword was his rather obvious Salty Dornish heritage and complexion, but other than that, he could have been mistaken easily for any other sellsword they passed on the road. Ashara underneath the well-worn grey cloak was dressed simply in a dress that bespoke of modest means. If she was to play the part of a sellsword’s wife, she had to look it, and look it she did. The only luxury she had kept to was a pale lavender scarf that she wrapped around the lower half of her face, both to keep the chill of the receding winter wind off her face as well as to obscure her identity. If worse had come to worse, they could always sell the scarf or trade it for a good night’s sleep and a meal at an inn if they ran out of coin or were robbed. All of which were possibilities with the realm at war and deserters likely to be scavenging. Thankfully that had yet to happen and necessity had yet to part her from the scarf.

 

           “My lady, we approach Harrenhal,” announced Morys as the melted towers appeared in the distance.

 

           “Aye,” was all she said as she looked at that ruined fortress and thought of the last time she’d been beneath its fortifications over a year ago.

 

 

~*~

 

 

           When she had come to look after the Princess as she swelled large with Aegon and tended to little Rhaenys who Elia always kept in her sight ever since the King had dismissed her by saying she “smelt Dornish”. Ashara loved the little Princess then as she had been playing with her wooden dragon, half teething and half entertained by throwing it and having Ashara fetch it for her. Ashara had been so attentive to Elia and Rhaenys’ needs throughout the tourney, Elia one night had ordered her to attend the feast while she and Rhaenys decided to take early to their bed in their tent.

 

           “Attend the feast, dance, be merry, but most importantly enjoy yourself. I’ll not need you for this night, so go.” Elia had said as she urged Ashara out of the tent, dressed rather well in a gown that Elia had secretly had sent to her from Ashara’s brother, Asric. Asric had just become Lord of Starfall with the death of father and was helped in the task by their mother, who was swelling herself with an unexpected sibling for Ashara to be proud of. It was simply a pity that father would never see his new son or daughter.

 

           In any case, Elia had written to Asric and Asric and Mother had arranged for a fine lavender sandsilk and cloth of silver gown to be made. The cloth of silver had been rather heavy to wear, especially in the bodice, but even Ashara had to admit the way the stitching glittered in the light was well worth the discomfort she otherwise endured. Elia had insisted on seeing Ashara dressed, and Ashara obliged her Princess and friend. Any friend who could make Ashara feel as though she were more than the often awkward girl she had long felt herself, being the youngest lady in Princess Elia’s service, was well worth pleasing and loving as a friend and sister. After spinning about the room for Elia and a rather happy Rhaenys who clapped her chubby hands together and squealed in delight, Elia had declared her ready for the feast and sent her on her way.

 

           As she had departed the tower that the royal party occupied, Ashara considered how much like a song this night was beginning as. Elia had been a kindly woodswitch or Child of the Forest, who had lifted her out of her “servitude” and was readying her to meet her Prince. Ashara laughed at the thought. She was already a lady, and a lady-in-waiting was hardly so consumed with menial tasks as other servants were, but still she rather liked the idea of imagining Elia her own personal kindly woodswitch, for she could work “spells” that no other acquaintance of hers could. And as such, Ashara had arrived at the feast in the Hall with a Hundred Hearths with mirth in her heart and a smile upon her lips. It seemed like nearly every lordling in the realm was in attendance, and when she entered their eyes were all upon her. She froze, rather struck by the attention given to her.

 

           Ashara had been thankful then that Arthur had immediately risen from his table, approached her, and asked her to dance, if only to take the attention off of her and lead her over to where he and his sworn brothers not on duty had taken residence in the hall as they ate and enjoyed themselves. In that moment, Ashara could not help but be thankful for Arthur and his protective brotherly feelings.

 

           He teased her, “Such a shimmering gown was bound to garner the attention of the room, little sister—an unwise choice if you wished to creep mouse your way into the Hall. It of course is only natural that I should step in and rescue you from yet another mess you’ve managed to get yourself into. Like that time you climbed onto a half-trained sandsteed?”

 

           “And I wonder how mother and Asric got my measurements? That’s why the seamstresses all cut lengths of ribbon when they were taking my size for the new dresses!” tsked Ashara cheekily.

 

            Arthur kept his mock serious mask on and answered, “You’ve grown since you’ve left Dorne, sister. You’re no longer the skinny girl you were, but have blossomed into a rather beautiful woman. You needed a gown or two fit for the court, that they then sent on those measurements to Starfall was rather generous of the merchant.”

 

            She leaned in rather close then and whispered, “Thank you Arthur, you’re my favorite brother.”

 

            “I’ll be sure to tell Asric you said that!” exclaimed Arthur with a wink.

 

           He put up a good show of being the tired elder brother annoyed with his troublesome little sister, but she knew the truth—even if he didn’t want to admit it in front of everyone else. They both knew the truth, and it made her laugh with joy to have such a brother as Arthur. He who pushed her, protected her, and loved her without question or hesitation.

 

           When she had taken her seat among his sworn brothers, Ashara felt rather out of place as the only woman at the table, but Ser Barristan instantly engaged her in conversation to take her mind off of that while Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jonothor Darry tried to outdrink the other. The King was being protected by Ser Gerold Hightower himself, and the rest had been allowed a night of respite from their sworn duties, much as Ashara had been given leave to indulge her fantasies by Elia. Ser Barristan through their conversation stared at her and was as gracious as though he were a boy more than half his age again, working rather hard to impress her without flubbing—though the wine made him trip about his tongue a little. She found his attentions sweet, for a man old enough to be her father, and then some. To think, Barristan the Bold, war hero of the Ninepenny War and slayer of Maelys “the Monstrous” Blackfyre himself, was made Barristan the Bashful by her mere presence. She nearly spat up her wine in giddy laughter at the thought. She who was but an awkward skinny girl from Starfall, nothing more.

 

           Prince Oberyn had been the next to dance with her after she had eaten a light fill of two courses, favoring the soup and a few fruits that reminded her of the gardens at Starfall. It had been many years since she’d seen the Prince as he had been travelling through Essos since the death of old Lord Yronwood. As such, the lanky youth she recalled visiting Starfall had finished his growth into a still lanky but now lean-muscled warrior. He was a very beautiful man to look at, and yet Ashara could tell that beneath that beauty was an iron underneath—no, not just iron, but Valyrian steel. He seemed to exude a physical calmness in asking her to dance, but Ashara looked into the Red Viper’s eyes and saw something more behind them—worry and fear. The emotions did not show a hint of themselves in the first part of the pavane, instead he complimented her appearance, her loyalty to his sister—apparently Elia had written to him often and mentioned her frequently the way Oberyn spoke of her—and he wished her and her family good health. The usual compliments people offer before they ask something of someone. It was only during the galliard that his anxieties and concerns with why his sister had chosen to miss the feast arose. Oberyn apparently had been eager to spend time with his sister and shower her with attention. Why he had wanted to do so, Ashara wasn’t entirely blind to, given how the King and Rhaegar were not the warmest of people where the Princess was concerned. However to hear Oberyn tell it, his mind like an overprotective brother seemed to assume the worse. Was she ill? Did she need a maester? Was she getting anything to eat? Ashara had laughed away Oberyn’s concerns by saying that the Princess had sent for food to be brought to the room and that Princess Elia had simply wished to have a night to herself where she did not have to be the lovely Princess of Dragonstone. Their dance came to an end with Oberyn attempting to hide that he ever was as overly worried of his sister’s absence by pointing to the minstrel with the recorder and saying:

 

           “With his cheeks as full as that, he looks like a squirrel.” It was a lighthearted if mean jape that fooled no one, least of all, Ashara.

 

           It was then that Prince Rhaegar had brought out his harp and begun to play, giving the minstrels a bit of a break to eat themselves as he played forlorn melodies that seemed to hang heavy in the air as she returned to her seat next to Arthur so that she might down a cup of wine to wash away the worries for Elia and the upcoming birth that Oberyn had imparted with her. No, Elia would send for her, if she was needed now—she had said as much. But she had no sooner taken a seat than the newly minted young Lord Jon Connington, a personal friend of the Prince, came over and asked her to dance.

 

           “To this song?” asked Ashara as she let Prince Rhaegar’s lonely song speak for itself.

 

           “Is there any other?” asked Connington, and so she stood to dance for a third time that evening. This dance though, like the last, seemed to feature a dancing partner that was even less focused on her, as the Young Griffin hummed the haunting melody that the Prince sang to himself. She tried engaging Jon in conversation, but he hushed her or ignored her all in favor of listening to Rhaegar’s voice. It was the most uncomfortable dance she’d ever had to dance until that point. When the song came to an end, only then did Connington seemed interested in starting a conversation, and only then it was to say:

 

           “Do tell the Princess how much her absence tonight has embarrassed the Prince. It’s a slight to him to hide away like this just because they had an argument. She is his wife, and if she continues to fail in her duties, consequences will be had.”

 

           “Are these the Prince’s thoughts?” questioned Ashara darkly, her eyes narrowing as he slowly escorted her back to her brother.

 

           The lord of griffins was curt and to the point as he stated, “The Prince thinks nothing ill of his wife, at present, my lady. I danced with you to make sure nothing further will trouble him. He had high expectations for this tourney until the King arrived, and to see his wife’s behavior further interfere with his plans would only cause more harm.”

 

           “I am so glad that our Prince has your protection, my lord, clearly he needs it,” spat Ashara as she pulled her arm free from the Stormlander’s grip and sat back down. Lord Connington did not stay long enough for Arthur to realize that she was upset. She tried to hide it with a smile and a bit of laughter, but Arthur knew better and a look passed between the two of them then that told Ashara that this would not be the end of the matter, if Arthur had any say in it while the rest of his white cloak brothers chattered away about what they’d been talking of prior. Ashara looked around, wondering if there might be someone who might want to dance with her, just for her sake other than Arthur. Ser Barristan by now had retired for the night so she couldn’t even count on him. \

 

           And then _he_ appeared. _He_ was tall and well-built, handsome in a roughhewn sort of way that his long wavy hair and week’s old beard only complimented his strong square jaw. _He_ wore a white doublet with a grey direwolf embroidered upon it. A Stark? She was star struck. He approached their table and Arthur sat up as he saw him approach.

 

           “Stark,” acknowledged Arthur.

 

           “Ser Arthur, Lady Ashara. I am Brandon Stark, heir to my father, Lord Rickard of Winterfell.”

 

           Ashara felt herself flush, even though he’d only said her name. She was very much taken by Brandon, but she didn’t care—not with a mouth as kissable as that on his face. And then best of all _he_ turned to her.

 

           With a charming grin, he commented rather genteelly for a Northerner, “You must excuse me for coming so abruptly and without an introduction, but your beauty was so radiant, that it could hardly helped from being noticed across the hall.”

 

           If he kept talking like this, she might just claim to be Salty Dornish and forget the honor of her Stoney Dornish ways. Aye… he’d be worth pretending to be as free as the Salty Dornish.

 

           “I was wondering if I might make a small request?” he began to ask.

 

           “Yes!” she agreed, eagerly and standing up almost immediately.

 

           “Ashara—” began Arthur.

 

           “Don’t!” she snapped back at her brother as Brandon Stark took her arm and began to escort her away from the table. Arthur wasn’t going to ruin this moment for her, the moment _he_ led her across the hall, and any second would take her in _his_ arms and they would… continue to walk pass the space that had been set aside for the dancing.

 

           Ashara was confused until she saw that they were approaching what looked to be a small table of Northerners. She saw banners that she vaguely recalled her Maester saying were Stark bannermen, Ashara now wished she had paid better attention to her lessons on Northern banners so she might know who they were. But among the bannermen were also what looked to be a small pack of wolves—Brandon’s younger siblings if she were to venture a guess. The youngest was still a boy who looked like he’d spilt his wine all over himself, staining his own white doublet a pale lavender almost the hue of her house’s color. Laughing uproariously was a girl who Ashara could only assume was Brandon’s sister in a white and cloth of silver gown that wasn’t as fine as hers, but fitted the girl rather prettily nonetheless. Her hair was simple and beyond being brushed was only adorned with the odd feathers tied into her hair. Joining her in laughing was a small boy—no a man by his thin beard, though he were the size of a boy to Ashara’s eyes. He was clearly a bannerman with his green lizard lion sewn poorly onto a tunic. Hardly noticeable at all was the young man—too old to be a boy, and too much a boy to be a man by the looks of him, at least not a man like his brother Brandon—who sat there staring at Ashara and Brandon and looking pale, as though he might heave onto the floor at any second. He stood as they approached, as if he were considering running from the Hall. He wasn’t immediately noticeable in any discernable fashion compared to his siblings, and had Brandon not begun to speak to him, she would have failed to have noticed him entirely.

 

           Brandon spoke jovily, but with a grin that seemed less inviting and more mischievous, “Lady Ashara, this is my little brother Eddard, but we call him Ned. Ned’s too shy to ask himself, but he would be _honored_ to have a dance with you, my lady.”

 

           It was that moment that Ashara felt her entire world crash. No. _No._ She was supposed to dance with the handsome young lordling, the one who could sweep young maidens off their feet with a grin. Instead she simply stood there in shock, smiling because she felt she had lost control of her face as Brandon handed her off to his little brother and practically pushed them out to join the roundelay which Ashara hoped would continue a bit longer. But alas by the time they’d come out to join the rest of the dancers, it had ended.

 

           “If you do not wish to dance, my lady, I will not hold you to it. Truly I did not mean for my brother to embarrass you so,” proffered Ned once the small break in the dance had begun. He spoke in words which seemed to be just above a mumble which could only mean one thing: he was nervous, but he did want to dance with her. Well, if she couldn’t have the handsome lordling, at least she’d dance with someone who actually wanted to. That frightened pup look however, would have to go.

 

           “Your brother did not embarrass me in the least, Ned. Do you not want to dance with me?” she asked.

 

           He gulped before answering, “Aye.”

 

           “Then take the lead,” said Ashara giving him her best smile, causing the Northern man-boy to flush again before positioning himself to begin, which she did in kind in response.

 

           “Saltarello!” called out one of the minstrels, Ashara immediately recognizing the dance as one of the Salty Dornish dances that the Rhoynar had brought from across the Narrow Sea. Briefly Ashara met her eyes to Ned’s, trying to discern if she should steel her feet for injury or not, but the icy mask which she had first seen upon the man-boy had returned, and so they began.

 

           The dance was fast and hardly gave any time for talking, which Ashara secretly thanked, for she knew not what to ask the shy man-boy with a face as still as ice. He fumbled a bit, obviously not accustomed to the nimbleness and agility required of the Saltarello, but he wasn’t a complete embarrassment, thinking back on it. He’d done remarkably well in fact, or at least that’s what Ashara told herself in hindsight. At the time each little misstep and fumble—no matter how tiny, was another mark against the man-boy who failed to live up to his brother. In the end, she ended up having to lead the dance because he only partly knew what to do. But then, she’d been overly harsh, overly critical, and too much infatuated with his brother to really give Ned a chance at anything. Of course she didn’t try to communicate this to Ned. To him she only smiled and laughed away his mistakes. Thankfully the dance did not last too long, though Ned seemed more at ease having opened up from the smiles and laughs she’d given in the last dance and to her surprise was eager for another. She was going to refuse him when those blasted musicians started again. The next one was a dance Ashara recognized as being more popular among the Riverlands and Crownlands, the Ductia, and this one Ned seemed far more capable of performing. But, Ashara did not care if on this one Ned could actually lead. All that she could think about was how soon she could escape back to her seat. In reflection, she likely would have found fault with him no matter what. When at last the lively drum came to a halt, Ashara complained that she felt dizzy from that last dance and needed to sit down. Ned began leading her off the dance floor when Arthur, once again came to her rescue.

 

           Arthur was dismissive of Ned from the first as he approached, saying, “There you are, little sister. I thank you for returning her, you may go.”

 

           Ned, looked as though he wanted to say something, but Ashara’s quick departure from his arm to Arthur’s most likely said what her smiles had not, and the young man-boy wolf, slinked back to his pack with as much dignity as a dog that had been kicked. That had gotten to her at that age.

 

           “You didn’t have to be so mean, Arthur,” she countered, her mind justifying that by standing up for the man-boy now, absolved her of all her guilt from before.

 

           “At least I was honest with him,” he retorted, beginning her down that road which would cause her to never forget those dances, nor ever stop going over them in her mind and how she had been rather cruel in her own way. Regrets would come eventually, but that night she wanted to drink to forget them, and so she poured the sour red liberally. She was not asked to dance again seeing as most of the Hall had emptied out by this point in the feast, with many having fallen over drunk and asleep, while others had coupled off and were scurrying for darker corners of the gigantic castle. Arthur had been called away by Ser Oswell to help carry their brother, Ser Jonothor back to the barracks where they had been quartered, and that had left Ashara to decide to return to her own bed in the Princess’ rooms. She took the half a cup of sour red that she’d been nursing along with her—no use letting good wine go to waste. Once she’d exited the hall she was ambushed from the shadows by someone who’d suddenly disoriented her by covering her eyes with his hands.

 

           “I saw how you danced with my brother, my lady… and then the way you looked at me…” slurred a somewhat familiar voice.

 

           “Ser… Brandon?” questioned Ashara.

 

           “Ser? Ha! I am no knight,” laughed Brandon, as he took away his hands and grabbed her arm and twirled her to face him, causing some of her wine to slosh out of her cup.

 

           “If you’re no knight, then I’m no lady,” challenged Ashara, thinking it ridiculous that he shouldn’t have been knighted at some point. Her wine addled mind forgetting that the Northerners did not follow the Faith of the Seven, but the Old Gods in that instant.

 

           “Do you want to test that?” he asked, pulling her into his grasp.

 

            In that moment she felt as though she were owed something. She was owed her handsome lordling to complete her night of dancing with frogs. And so she took what she thought she deserved, and kissed him. He needed no invitation after their lips met to begin moving his hands in ways she knew ladies would never allow a lordling suitor to touch them—but it felt so good right then. Was this what the Salty Dornish allowed themselves? Was this the pleasure that she as a Stoney Dornish were supposed to frown upon? If so, then color her Salty she thought. Her cup and the wine fell from her grasp onto the floor, disturbing them only slightly before returning to the kissing. After what felt like longer than forever, they broke the kiss and Brandon suggested coming down to his tent. Being giddy and starving for more attention, she accepted without thought.

 

            She had been too giddy rushing down the steps to the ground floor to care for the tiny voice that sounded like mother scolding her in that instance. When it became Asric and Arthur’s turn to do so, when mother’s voice gave out, she banished them from her mind. No, she wouldn’t think of her family or her honor, or whatever else she was supposed to care about. All that mattered in that moment was how he made her feel as light and airy as a cloud in the sky, and how she didn’t want that to end so soon. As they hurried past tents they giggled and laughed at the various sigils—too drunk to care who they belonged to or who might be upset. They were utter fools then, and she the biggest of them all. It wasn’t until they had ensconced themselves in his big white tent that she began to wonder if she should be alone with him. And _he_ had dropped his breeches and raised her skirts between frantic kisses before she started to wonder if she actually wanted him touching her down there. However the true moment she awoke from her giddiness was when she felt the shuddering pain as he thrusted in to her. She cried out slightly, but he continued. No. she didn’t want this now.

 

            “Stop…” she remembered whispering, but he did not until he had spent himself inside of her, which happened rather quickly in hindsight, but each thrust had felt as though it were splitting her in twain, and the pain was unbearable.

 

            He laid atop her there for a moment as his seed wormed its way deeper in her. As Ashara lay there, unable to do anything with his massive bulk pinning her down, which felt so heavy now she had to admit, she could only wonder that this was what the Salty Dornish allowed? This retching pain? Gods—mother had been right, they were mad. But then another thought clutched her heart as she realized that she no longer was a maid anymore. Suddenly she felt the need to cry and to bathe—she felt impossibly dirty and stained. Would his seed leave a mark? Is that how her future husband would know? Would she even have a husband now? Gods she’d been so foolish… so giddy… so stupid!

 

           He finally pulled out and looked down at his semi-erect cock to admire the sight of it for a moment—blood and a white slime covering it. Was she bleeding? Had he truly split her in two?

 

           “You hadn’t told me you were a maid… odd for a Dornishwoman,” was all he remarked as he grabbed a cloth to clean himself off.

 

           Ashara knew not what to say, though she knew she wanted to leave. She had to return to the castle and to Elia. She made her excuses, which did not seem to bother Brandon any, and without even a kiss from her handsome lordling she smoothed down the front of her dress and left his tent. She didn’t burst into tears as she began to ascend the steps to the tower that contained the Royal sleeping arrangements. She entered the Princess’ chambers expecting for Elia to have gone to sleep, but was shocked to find that a candle was lit and the Princess was sitting up in her shift and a shawl, cradling young Rhaenys, who rested slightly on her mother’s rounding belly.

 

           “How was your night?” questioned Elia with a smile.

 

           Ashara knew not how to answer. The songs and stories never said how to answer a kindly woodswitch after she’d assisted the young serving girl. And Elia looked so eager and happy—why should she ruin that?

 

           “A lovely night…” she managed to croak out. Thankful that the candle’s light wasn’t bright enough to allow her face to be seen clearly. She then added, “the finest night I’ll ever see…”

 

           “You’re crying…” noted Elia.

 

           “Because it was so lovely,” lied Ashara, though the lie did not prevent the rumors from reaching Elia eventually, it just wasn’t that night.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

           “My lady.” stated Morys with a sense of urgency to his tone, bringing Ashara back into the present as the distant towers of Harrenhal loomed overhead, the Whent flag flapping in the breeze.

 

           “I’m sorry, Morys, I must have dozed off,” she apologized.

 

           Morys urged, “There are outriders approaching, get behind me.”

 

           Ashara looked ahead and saw a few riders approaching, one carrying the Baratheon banner of the prancing stag. Gods, the rebels were this far south? She obliged Morys’ command, and fell back to let Morys put himself between them and her.

 

           “State your business!” demanded the knight without the banner as he brought his mount to a halt a few feet from them.

 

           “My name is Garrick of Saltmount, and this is my lady wife. I am but a simple hedge knight, nothing more.”

 

           “Traveling, with your wife?” questioned the knight, giving Ashara an odd look.

 

           Morys answered, “The lord, whom I’d been contracted with began to take certain liberties with her. Liberties I couldn’t stand for and remain in his service.”

 

           “And where are you headed?” asked the other knight with the banner.

 

            “Wherever I might find commission, and my wife an honorable place,” retorted Morys.

 

            “Join Lord Robert’s army, and there’ll be a place for you—hell, he might even give you a keep of your own if you prove your worth,” called out the first knight.

 

            Morys looked to Ashara quickly before turning back and shouting, “First I’d like to meet Lord Robert.”

 

            “That shouldn’t be so hard to arrange. He’s but three days ride North of here. Follow us,” commanded the banner man knight.

 

            And so they were escorted to the rebel camp, north of Harrenhal by at least three days and fortified upon the top of a hill. Upon entering it, Ashara looked for the sight of the Stark banner. If Ned were still as much the eager if nervous man-boy he’d been before, she’d have the chance of helping Elia, as much as Elia had helped her. When at last she caught sight of the Stark pavilion she pleaded the need to dismount and make her water. She was pointed in the direction of the latrines.

 

            “I’ll be back for you, my love,” said Morys with as much husbandly affection as he could muster. They’d spent the past two nights huddled closer to one another than they had before acquiring their escort. She didn’t trust the rebel bannermen, especially with how they leered at her, and Morys and his grip about her waist at night had reminded her of the Water Gardens, Dorne, Arthur… and home. It had been the only human contact she’d had in moons, as normally they had slept apart, and she was now starved for more.

 

            Ashara made her way through the rebel camp, pretending to look for the latrines, but all the while making an elaborate circle round to the back of the Stark pavilion. Unfortunately for her, it was well guarded, even from the rear. There’d be no way in, but through confronting the guards. So, she plucked up the steel within her, and approached the guards.

 

            “State your business!” called the guard with a leather jerkin when she had approached close enough.

 

            “I would speak with Lord Stark,” she said, almost regretting to not have waited and tried under the cover of darkness. The evening sun was low on the horizon.

 

            “Name.”

 

           She couldn’t very well reveal herself now to these men, so with a quick thought she replied, “Tell your lord that he dances a Saltarello rather well for a Northerner.” The guard looked at her queerly, and so she added, “He’ll understand.”

 

            The one guard shook his head and entered the tent, leaving her with the other guard for company in the chill late winter air. It wasn’t long before the guard returned and said disgruntled, “You may enter.”

 

            Ashara passed and entered into the dimly lit tent, with only a brazier for warmth and light in the center of the tent. The man she came upon was far different from the man-boy she’d met at Harrenhal. It might have been the flickering light from the brazier and the dance of light and shadow, but Lord Eddard seemed taller, bigger, and more a man than he had before. He wasn’t as handsome as his brother had been, that was plain as his face. However he wasn’t terrible to look at himself, especially in the flickering light of that brazier where his face and body took on a warm hue. He turned and looked at Ashara, his grey eyes regarding her with an icy distance she hadn’t seen in them before.

 

            “I hadn’t expected to see you again, Lady Dayne,” he remarked, formally and politely.

 

            Ashara pulled off her hood and took down her scarf as she said, “Nor I, you, Eddard.”

 

            He turned away when she spoke his name.

 

            “What brings you here?” he asked without returning to look at her.

 

            Business first, it would seem, “I come as an envoy for the Princess. She seeks to make an alliance with you and lords Robert and Jon.”

 

            He was quick to turn to her then, “An alliance? What sort of alliance?”

 

            Ashara composed herself and stood taller, as if she could ever match his height by straightening her posture, “That her son may inherit the Iron Throne as is his right. She would arrange with you a council to rule in his name until he was of age to rule himself, with representatives from Houses Martell, Stark, Baratheon, and Arryn all represented.”

 

            “She’s getting rather ahead of herself if she thinks to crown herself the Queen Regent and gain our favor by betraying her husband’s,” he retorted with a snort.

 

            Ashara countered, “The Princess had no involvement in the abduction of your sister, or the execution of your family. She sees the King as mad and her husband as having abandoned her to his father’s whims in order to chase his own mad folly.”

 

            Ned shook his head, sighed, and replied, “Be that as it may, that still leaves the job of deposing the King and bringing her husband to justice. And he will be brought to _justice_.”

 

            He had turned to stare her down in that moment, grey eyes meeting violet as he emphasized justice.

 

            “With regards to the King, she is well placed with a few men loyal to her in the Red Keep. They can take the King hostage at the first sign of your army approaching the city. You only need approach the gates, and the King will be taken.” It was an exaggeration, but such things were necessary in a negotiation such as this.

 

            “And what in exchange for all of this would we receive for doing the majority of the work? Our lives and a council seat?” questioned Ned.

 

            Ashara took a deep breath then, and offered, “I know where the Prince has taken your sister, and should you agree to this alliance, I will tell you where she is and how to get there.”

 

            Ned turned and looked at Ashara then, a hope shimmering in his eyes unlike what she’d seen before.

 

            “You know where she is? Then… how, how could—the Princess?” began Ned, beginning to comprehend what Ashara feared he might have.

 

            “I said _I_ knew, not that the Princess knew,” said Ashara, and that was true enough, if not the entire truth. Arthur had come for one of their serving girls, Wylla and Asric had had them followed to that abandoned watchtower. He’d then written to the Princess, asking what it was she wanted him to do about it. She’d thought long and hard before saying that Ashara would claim to be pregnant and depart from the capital.

 

            Ned’s icy mask had fallen from his face and for a moment he bit his lip like a boy might before shaking his head and said, “I… I need to speak to Jon and Robert. Or, at least Jon. Wait here… if you need food or water, simply ask my men and they’ll fetch whatever you require.”

 

            And with a swift turn he departed the tent, leaving Ashara with nothing but to wait. There weren’t any papers or maps about, all that was here beyond the brazier was a folding bed with a feather mattress, a table, a locked chest, and two chairs. Starved, she asked the guard who’d challenged her before to fetch some food and a flagon of wine. These things were brought with more than enough to spare—no doubt in anticipation that Ned would return to enjoy them—and Ashara began to worry. What if Lord Arryn advised against it? What if Robert wanted more than just Lyanna back? To quell her thoughts, Ashara unadvisedly drank long and deep from the flagon, refilling her cup more than it was good for her of the sweet Arbor gold.

 

            To her surprise, Ned returned before long, solemn and quiet.

 

            “Lord Stark? How did they take to the offer?” she asked as his grey eyes met hers.

 

            “I did not tell them. News has arrived from some of our outriders. Prince Rhaegar marches north from the Stormlands along the Kingsroad with an army of Dornish spearmen at his back,” was all that Ned said.

 

            _Then Elia’s plans…_

 

            She said suddenly, “The Princess did not know, Ned.”

 

            He was quiet, too quiet in his response, “You sit there, eating my food and drinking my wine, you speak my name as if we were intimate, all while offering an alliance you must have known was impossible.”

 

            “You must understand—” she began.

 

            “I understand plenty, Lady Dayne. I am not the green boy I was at Harrenhal,” he practically snarled.

 

            Desperate, she tried to explain, the wine letting the words flow from her mouth. “When I left the capital, the Princess had had no word from Prince Rhaegar, and the defeat at the Battle of the Bells was still sour upon the King’s tongue. He called her before the court, reminded her that she was his hostage and that the loyalty of Dorne would determine her fate. And then he threatened to pass over Rhaegar’s line in favor of Viserys, if he took any longer to return.”

 

            “And so she sent you, as a desperate last measure?” asked Ned coldly.

 

            She was frustrated and so retorted, “Aye… you, you have no idea what the King in his madness has been doing. He burns prisoners alive with wildfire, right in the middle of the throne room and then goes and rapes his wife—leaving scars and marks behind so that she cannot show her face in court. It doesn’t even matter what crime or how old the prisoners are—he burns old men and children alike, rapists and pickpockets. Any excuse to see a man’s flesh melt off their bones. The fire is his obsession, his passion, and he’s rewarding those thrice damned alchemists for making more of it. He burned your father alive with it… while your brother watched—tied with a noose around his neck that tightened the closer he got, strangling himself to death. The deaths have been almost daily since then… the King sees no one but traitors and schemers all around, and the Princess and her children are there at his mercy. And you think, that just because the Prince now apparently returns, with an army bought by her imprisonment, that his wife will forgive him for putting her and their children through _that_? That she would suffer his protection anymore?”

 

            She turned away from his icy eyes and began to cry, thinking of Elia and poor Rhaenys and Aegon, trapped in the power of that madman. To her surprise, she felt her shoulder touched by his hand. She turned, tears streaming from her eyes, and there for the briefest of moments was the smallest hint of the man-boy in his eyes. She threw herself into his arms, imagining it were Asric or Arthur, there to comfort her after some great disappointment. He held her awkwardly but tenderly nonetheless, but it wasn’t enough to stop the images in her mind of green fire and melting flesh. It was likely the wine getting to her, but she needed more affection, she needed to be assured she would never see another Targaryen as long as she lived, she needed to be held and soothed, but most of all in that moment she needed him. So she kissed him, hard and fierce and desperate for some kind of emotion from him, some sense of safety and belonging. She was already a ruined woman both truly and with false rumors planted about the court that she was pregnant anyway. What was yet another man?

 

           He pulled back as she deepened the kiss, but Ashara held onto him tightly, desperate for some kind of human contact and affection.

 

           “We cannot—” he began, before she kissed him again.

 

           “We should not,” he tried again between kisses. She could feel his arousal in that moment that he would otherwise deny.

 

           “I have a wife!” he finally blurted out.

 

           That stopped Ashara for the nonce, and a short silence passed between them before Ashara said, “We did this at Harrenhal, my lord, not now.”

 

           And that time she kissed him long and deep and began to forget as they fell to his bed and began to shed their clothes.

 

~*~

 

            As the sun arose she woke in his arms with a dull hangover that made her wish she would ne’er have to leave this right here.

 

            “What do you mean he’s still abed?! And with a lady no less!” shouted a voice from outside the tent. A booming boisterous voice. One which awoke Ned, who looked and saw her and then looked to the edge of the tent.

 

            “Stay here,” urged Ned as he slipped from the bed, pulled his breeches on and exited the tent to greet the man outside. From where she lay she could just hear them speak as she moved to dress herself, first pulling on her smallclothes.

 

            “What has you in so late, Ned? I thought we were agreed to march at dawn. If that bastard plans on marching further north, I want to maneuver us into a better defensive position further north than this ruddy hill!”

 

            “I overslept, Robert,” admitted Ned as she slipped into her boots.

 

            “What? You’re a man with faults? Glad to hear it. And the lady, Ned, is it true?” questioned the booming voice, which apparently belonged to Lord Robert.

 

            There was a small silence, but eventually she heard an abashed “Aye.”

 

            Robert chuckled and then added, “Well, I’d ask to meet the lady who managed to make even you forget about your blasted honor for a night, but I’ll settle for her name.”

 

            “Wylla,” was what Ned said after a rather long silence. Ashara was surprised somewhat at the lie, but nonetheless grateful.

 

Robert chortled, “I’d like to meet this Wylla sometime, but I won’t trouble her none now. Don’t look so ashamed Ned. Women understand that a man has _needs_ when he’s away from his lady wife.”

 

            “I shall be prepared to ride within the hour,” was Ned’s only reply. Servants would likely linger to strike the tents and supplies and then cart them after further along in the train of the army.

 

            By this point Ashara was managing to slip back into her dress, though the bodice ties were loose in the back. Ned re-entered the tent and looked at her. Their stares exchanged for what was a rather long moment.

 

            “Am I free to go my lord?” she asked.

 

Ned gave no reply for what felt like an eternity before saying, “I’ll need to call in my man to dress me.”

 

            She grabbed a spare bit of parchment, a quill, and some ink, “I’ll be gone ere long. Tie me up in the back, could you? I have something to write for you.” And so, as Ned tied her bodice, she leaned over his table and drew a map of the Red Mountains near where she had grown up. With a dot she indicated the abandoned tower Asric had followed Arthur to.

 

            When they were both finished their tasks, she handed him the parchment, “Your sister is being held here. She is likely being held against her will at this point if the Prince has departed his ‘tower of joy’.”

 

            “You didn’t—” began Ned.

 

            Although she knew it was likely of little good with Prince Rhaegar marching with a host of Dornish spearmen, she said, “Consider that alliance. Defeat Rhaegar if you must, but please, think on Elia and her children—they should not suffer for what crimes Aerys and Rhaegar have done.”

 

            Ned nodded quietly and took the paper from her hand. Their hands touched, and for one moment, one brief moment, Ashara stole a kiss that she wanted and not that the wine had urged her to do. It was brief, but sweet, and in that moment Ashara regretted not having given the man-boy Eddard had been a proper chance at Harrenhal. She hooked her cloak about her shoulders and wrapped her scarf about her face, and departed without saying a word further, Morys wasn’t difficult to find, and their horses were with him.

 

            “My lady?” he asked as they left the camp.

 

            “We ride south… for Starfall…” was all she said, and so they did.


End file.
